In The Eye of the Beholder
by I'm A Cuckoo
Summary: Sirius, the infamous womaniser, as the women saw him


_Disclaimer: Anything you recognise is property of JK Rowling. The style of this story was inspired by '_Jacob's Room' _by Virginia Woolf. No infringement intended._

**In The Eye of the Beholder**

Orion looked over her shoulder to see the small bundle nestled to her breast.

'Well, let me see him,' he ordered.

She gently tilted the baby backwards and pulled down the blanket slightly, revealing a small, pinched face and a shock of black hair. The baby opened his mouth as if to protest. He began to yawn, tired already of his first day on this planet. Walburga smiled, rubbed her forefinger softly against his cheek.

'Hmm. Very good. Well done, my dear,' Orion dropped a vague kiss onto his wife's head and took hold of his son. 'Sirius Orion Black,' he stated to the baby.

Sirius squirmed, whimpered, and Walburga's arms were reaching out to him before she could stop herself. Orion stared at her incredulously.

'You don't have to deal with this charade, Walburga. We can easily find a wet-nurse and a nanny.'

'No,' Walburga shook her head. Her eyes stayed riveted to her son's face. She had not expected a child. She had thought they'd left it too late. But now, here he was, real, warm, irresistible. 'No, dear. I want to do those things for him. I want to raise him.'

Orion raised an eyebrow and suppressed a sigh. He handed the child back to his wife. 'Well, let me know when you change your mind,' was all he said.

He left them then, the door clicking shut in disdain. Walburga was so entranced by her son that she didn't notice.

Over the course of the next few days, Walburga busied herself with memorising every inch of the familiar stranger that lay in her arms. She searched for family resemblances, finding them in the shape of his nose, the curl of his hair, the design of his ears. She gazed in awe at features which seemed entirely his own, cooing in delight when two deep blue eyes finally opened. Later in life, when faced with the cold apathy of grey she would despair at her foolishness, at her romantic notions. How could she not have known that all babies are born with blue eyes? Before she would die, Walburga would decided that in actual fact, the changing colour of her first born's eyes were an indication of his deceitfulness, of the disappointment he embodied.

But there, in that moment, Sirius Orion Black signified optimism and love. He was the heir she thought she never would be able to give her husband. He was the tangible link between a disillusioned wife and a distant husband. He was the future of her family. He was evidence of a successful marriage. He was proof that anything was possible.

One week later, Sirius' name was added to the tapestry which adorned the Black dining room wall. Walburga watched from her husband's side. Sirius slept soundly in her arms. Orion stared at the small line that descended from his name and then abruptly turned to Walburga. He gave her a look of such devotion, such pride, and she squeezed Sirius slightly. Everything would be fine from here on out.

* * *

'Don't dawdle,' Melania said for the fifth time that afternoon. She turned to fix her grandson with a stern eye.

Sirius was too distracted to realise he had once again attracted his grandmother's displeasure. Diagon Alley was still far too wondrous a place for him. Melania pursed her lips as Sirius unconsciously mimicked some Hogwarts students who were gathered outside Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour. He leaned forward, curiosity outweighing familial duty as one young boy took out a handful of Muggle coins.

'_Sirius_,' Melania growled.

His eyes darted upwards, fear etched onto his face, his body still aimed towards the Mudblood. If she wasn't so disturbed, Melania probably would have laughed. Instead, she snatched up Sirius' hand and marched him towards the Apothecary. Her thoughts stumbled and flustered as her grip tightened. Sirius gasped and winced. She was either deaf to his discomfort, or immune.

This wasn't the first time Sirius had done something that concerned her. When he was four, she had caught him watching avidly as two Muggle children played in the street outside her house. He had clapped and whooped as they chased each other into dizziness, and then begged his grandmother to be allowed to join them. She had put his oversight down to loneliness: Regulus had been poorly at the time and Sirius had been without a playmate.

But then, barely a year later, she had overheard a conversation between him and Bella. He had asked her not to use the word 'Mudblood', had told her that it didn't make any sense as a phrase. He had seen a Muggle child fall over once and graze her knee, and he had seen with his own eyes that the blood that pooled on the pavement was as crimson as theirs. Bella had snorted, slapped him, and promptly recounted the conversation to Sirius' mother.

Still, Melania considered, he was only seven years old. What did he know or understand about the world? He rarely mixed with children that weren't his relations. How could he know the difference between himself and blood traitors? Pure-blood was all he knew.

Reassured, she released Sirius and bent down to maintain eye contact with him.

'You know what that boy was, Sirius. You know we do not associate with his kind. To admit curiosity is shameful. You know all this.'

Sirius squirmed, blushed, nodded.

'I know you were just excited, Sirius. You haven't been to Diagon Alley for a while, and you and I haven't spent much time together lately. You were too distracted to think.'

He scuffed his shoes and fingered the hem of his sleeve.

'In light of this, I will not tell your parents what happened this afternoon. It can be our secret.' Melania tucked her finger underneath his chin and raised his head. 'Now, kiss me.'

Sirius dutifully kissed his grandmother's cheek. She smiled at him. His eyes lit up at the unexpected reprieve. He wriggled his hand back into hers and tugged her towards the shop entrance.

'Perhaps I could pick a new ingredient, Grandmother? Reggie and I have nearly finished all our beetle eyes.'

Melania nodded. Seven years old was far too young to think that this child was too far gone to rescue. But she could not pretend that doubt had not crawled into her thoughts.

* * *

Minerva McGonagall looked over her glasses at the sad and battered child sat in front of her. His nose was bleeding profusely and his left eye was swollen shut. His robes were filthy and his trousers were torn at the knee, revealing a nasty gash. He looked at the floor and every now and then, his whole body trembled, whether from fear or shock, she did not know.

'Black,' she said gently.

He did not look up.

'Black, if you do not tell me who did this, the attacker will not be punished.'

It was futile. Minerva already knew who had done this. Bellatrix Black was hardly a champion of subtlety. Rumours of this very event had circulated the Great Hall a mere half an hour after it had happened, and Bellatrix herself had entered the Hall to tremendous applause from the Slytherin table.

But Sirius Black would not give her up. He may have taken a savage beating from his own cousin, but familial loyalty was not so easily shrugged off.

Minerva sighed.

Sirius sighed, too.

'Have you made any friends, Black?'

This was not the line of questioning Sirius had been expecting, and surprise made him look up.

'A... a few,' he hesitated.

Minerva smiled in encouragement. 'And? Their names?'

Sirius closed his eyes. 'James Potter. Peter Pettigrew.' He spat the words out and flinched pre-emptively.

Silence received his admittance. He opened his eyes worriedly.

'James, he's a pure-blood. But a blood traitor. And Peter's half-blood. But his mum's pure and his dad doesn't live with them.'

Minerva appraised him. 'And should that matter?'

Sirius shook his head fiercely.

'Does that matter?'

A brief moment of reluctance before another fierce shake of the head. He matched her gaze now, his chin lifted defiantly.

'I don't care. I don't care what they are. I don't believe in pure-blood and... and Muggle-borns. We can all do magic, can't we? I think...' he trailed off.

Minerva leaned forward. 'You think,' she prompted.

Sirius' eyes closed again. 'I think it's rubbish,' he blurted.

She sat back in her chair but a smile was dancing along her lips.

'And your family. What do they know of your opinions?'

Sirius stalled. He tried to look away but found he couldn't.

'Too much,' he whispered. 'I thought they just didn't understand. I was right – they don't. But they don't want to understand.'

Silence again.

Sirius sat with a distinctly horrified expression fixed to his face. Minerva's brow puckered.

'My door is always open, Black. Should you need to talk. Should you have anything to tell me. I hope you know that.'

His eyes were still far too large to be comforted but he nodded all the same.

'Very well,' she gestured for him to stand. 'I'd go to the hospital wing, Black. That nose needs attending to.'

He left as quietly as he had entered. Minerva sat still for a few seconds more, mulling over their conversation. Then she reached for her quill and a scrap of parchment and began to write a letter to his mother.

He may not be prepared to give Bellatrix up, but Sirius was still heir to the Black family. His mother needed to know about this. Perhaps she could bring Bellatrix to order.

* * *

Trisha Bailey glanced at her wristwatch and sighed.

Her boyfriend, Ben Thompson, looked up from his Potions essay and raised his eyebrows.

'What was that for?'

'Time for detention duty,' she grumbled.

Ben frowned. 'But you just did that two days ago.'

Trisha sighed again. 'Yeah. But John Richards wanted to swap with me.'

He snorted. 'And you let him?'

'He offered me Valentine's Day.'

Ben smirked. 'So who's serving time tonight?'

Trisha didn't say anything. Instead she fixed him with a world-weary stare.

Another snort. 'The Marauders then.' This was said with a sarcastic air. 'They're not that bad. At least they've got a sense of humour.'

Trisha seemed to be looking at Ben as though he had suddenly sprouted a dragon's tail.

'Oh come on!' Ben raised his hands in mock defence. 'They're not Slytherins are they? You won't have to worry about getting hexed whenever you turn your back with the Marauders will you?'

This did nothing to appease Trisha.

'I'm going before my heart melts with your loving reassurance,' she muttered as she bent down to kiss his cheek. 'See you at ten, yeah?'

She hurried through the hallways, desperate to get to McGonagall's classroom. It wasn't safe to be a Muggle-born if you were planning on roaming the corridors after dark. Truth be told, Trisha had understood what Ben had tried to say: she would be completely safe in the company of the Marauders. They weren't exactly secretive about their hatred of the prejudice that had sprung up so viciously in recent years.

She arrived in good time, pulled out her Transfiguration homework and settled down to wait. It was only five minutes until their footsteps sounded outside. Sirius arrived first, Remus not far behind him.

'Remus?' Trisha's voice rose incredulously.

He grinned sheepishly. 'Guilty.'

'What did you _do?_'

Remus scratched his head, his eyes glinting with something that clearly wasn't guilt. 'We may have been caught in the Restricted section.'

Trisha didn't bother to hide her disappointment. 'That's all?'

Sirius grinned at her. 'If you would be so kind as to embellish the story when everyone asks later on, we'd very much appreciate it.'

She shook her head slightly. 'Take a seat. It's lines tonight.'

A flick of the wand aimed at the blackboard, and _I must try not to show such arrogant disdain for the school rules which are only in place for my protection _appeared there in neat cursive.

They worked in silence for forty five minutes. The parchments in front of Sirius and Remus were filled steadily with the same monotony. Trisha's wand slashed through the air, recreating the movements described in her text book. Another fifteen minutes, and she had mastered the Switching spell she had been revising. With nothing left to occupy her, she took to observing the two boys in front of her.

Curiosity bubbled; simmered; boiled.

'What were you looking up? In the Restricted section?'

Sirius raised his head and laughed.

Remus lay his quill down on the desk and looked at her carefully.

'If we told you, we'd have to... well. Not kill you. But at the very least, charm you into silence.'

Trisha rolled her eyes. 'Go on.'

'Never trust a Prefect,' Sirius said in a tone of voice that implied this lesson had been hard learnt.

'No, really. Please tell me. I'm intrigued.'

'You're entitled to feel intrigued. Please don't let us get in the way of it.'

They were looking anywhere but at each other. At last, the penny dropped.

'Where are James and Peter?' she asked slowly.

Sirius scratched his arm nonchalantly. 'In the Common Room I expect. Wiling away the hours until we return to fill the gaping holes in their hearts.'

'You're covering up for them,' she said shrewdly.

Remus snorted. 'Covering up for them? They're not subtle, Trisha. We'd need at least a dozen elephants to cover up for those two.'

Sirius laughed heartily. Trisha shook her head.

'You're unbelievable,' she chuckled.

'And yet, here we are. Touchable, visible, totally believably real.' Sirius waved his hand around carelessly. 'Now, if you don't mind, Bailey. These lines won't write themselves. And I really feel that a newfound respect for the school rules is being instilled into my villainous mind.'

'Oh, by all means, Black. Don't let me keep you from your morality,' Trisha replied with a smile.

* * *

He got on in London. Having been surrounded by gossiping old women and crotchety old men for the majority of her journey, Amy Dawes couldn't help but take notice of him.

He looked tired. No, more than tired. He looked defeated. Every step down the aisle of the Knight Bus seemed to cost him something. His fingers gripped at a tattered Muggle rucksack with a fierceness that immediately created a dozen questions in her mind.

His head was bowed, his shoulders slumped. Long dark hair shielded him from the wondering gazes of his fellow passengers. When he reached his seat, it was with an intense relief that he sat down. But then he was on his guard again. His head swung round to the window and his hands cupped around his eyes to see out through the cloying darkness. Whatever he was searching for did not make an appearance and he leaned back, the chair protesting against the sudden weight it had to support.

The Inspector came to him. 'Thirteen sickles, mate.'

He looked up, blanched. 'I... I don't have anything on me.'

The Inspector glared. 'Off you get then.'

'No. No, please. My friend will pay. He'll pay double. Triple. I swear, he'll pay.'

'And just where does this oh-so-generous friend of yours live?'

His eyes shifted. His hair dropped around his mouth. The Inspector leaned forward to catch his next words. Whatever they were, they must have offered reassurance because the Inspector stood up again and said, 'You'll be there within the hour.'

He nodded. 'Thanks. Thank you.'

The Inspector moved on and he began to root through his rucksack. From it, he drew out a mirror.

'James,' he said inexplicably, authority entering his voice. A few age-long seconds later, his face relaxed into an almost-smile. 'Prongs, I'm on the Knight Bus. Can I come to yours?'

'Er. Yeah, sure. Course you can, mate. You know you don't need to ask.' The voice came from nowhere, and he seemed to realise he was not as inconspicuous as he had hoped to be. 'What's-'

'Can't speak here, mate. But while I've got you, I don't have any money. Could you...?' He blushed.

'Say no more, Padfoot. What's mine is yours.' Again, the voice sounded from the mirror.

He closed his eyes, smiled. 'Thank you. See you in about an hour, yeah?' He nodded at the mirror and then stowed it away again. Then he wriggled himself into a comfortable position and slowly, slowly, he drifted into an edgy slumber.

Amy stared freely now. She drank him in. The criss-cross of scratches that layered his arms; white marks accustomed to being there clashed with the fresh awkwardness of pink welts. Darkness shadowed his knuckles, enhancing the dried blood that crusted into the grooves. He flinched in his sleep, his head rocking backwards to reveal his face.

It should have been stunning and Amy tried to describe it so, but she would have to make do with 'rugged'. His lip was swollen and his right cheekbone was a vivid yellow. A cut etched into his eyebrow winked at her with every movement of the bus. He should have been terrifying, intimidating. But in sleep, his face was gentle and Amy suddenly saw that this was merely a boy, a child. Shivers crawled up her back as this realisation sank in.

What had happened to him? Why was he on the Knight Bus at this time, with no money, no parents or friends, nothing but the odd bits and bobs that he had obviously thrown into his rucksack minutes before flagging down the bus? The distinct feeling of uneasiness prickled in her stomach. She looked away, ashamed now of her blatant fascination. She did not look his way again for the remainder of her journey, and yet she was powerfully aware of his every movement.

When the Knight Bus reached her destination, she got off, her eyes fixed firmly to her feet, her thoughts fixed firmly on him.

* * *

This was not the Sirius Black that Alice Longbottom remembered. She had been in sixth year when he started at Hogwarts. Back then, he had been almost needy; desperate to be accepted for who he was by both his family and his House, he had wobbled on a tightrope. Somewhere in the interceding years, he had fallen off. It was quite clear who had been holding the safety net. What had caused him to wobble so dangerously was less obvious. There were theories though.

Alice supposed she must be very naive to assume that any new members would be welcomed into the Order. They had come through very dark days and there were surely many more to come. She had thought that anyone willing to fight this all-consuming darkness would be a very much appreciated addition to the team. She had over-estimated her fellow members.

'He's a _Black_,' Dorcas had hissed when Sirius and his friends were out of earshot.

'He's a _Gryffindor_,' Frank had replied.

'We're not at school anymore, Longbottom,' Dorcas had said harshly. 'Seven years of some petty House alliance is hardly going to over-rule twenty years of being a Black.'

'Actually,' Sirius had cut in softly, 'I'm not a Black anymore. I was disowned four years ago.'

Dorcas had flushed, mortified at being caught in such a childish past-time as bitching.

Nothing more was said that night. The whisperers bided their time until the day after. Sirius seemed arrogantly unbothered by it all.

He wasn't arrogant though, not really. He was polite, loyal, funny. Alice liked him. Yes, he was young – but weren't they all? Here she was, not even twenty-seven and married. More than married. She was wrapped up in an intense battle. She spent her days practicing jinxes and researching combative spells. She spent her evenings guarding Muggles and Muggle-borns. She spent her nights cleaning her husband's numerous injuries.

Sirius was young and she loved that about him. He was a fresh pair of eyes looking at a seemingly failing last defence. He was an optimistic view of the future. He was a joker. He showed that even those in the dark could stumble into the light. After all, Alice mused as she watched him laugh with Peter and Benji Fenwick, opposites attract. It seemed inevitable that he would want to fight for the Order. Nothing was more tempting than the forbidden things.

* * *

The first thing that Joanna Andrews thought when she apparated onto the scene was 'I'm going to miss that film tonight.' Then she berated herself furiously. The war had that effect on people. She knew she wasn't the first one to trivialise an incident this horrific but she didn't see that as any sort of excuse. As she walked deeper into the alleyway, her shame intensified.

Dead bodies draped themselves on the pavement as though they were part of some sick street art exhibition. Hands touched hands, feet touched feet. Eyes stared at her as though desperate to partake in her reaction.

Joanna breathed in deeply. Breathed out deeply. She gripped her wand tighter, began to pick her way through the hopscotch of corpses.

A crack echoed behind her and she heard Cornelius Fudge curse fluently as the welcoming committee greeted him from the floor. Seven more cracks. Seven more curses. They followed Joanna.

It only got worse.

The bodies ended. The debris began. Joanna closed her eyes. She could not look at this. She did not want these memories to stay alongside her first kiss with Liam, the first time she clutched a wand, the sound of her father reading her a bedtime story. What had happened in this alleyway, what remained in this alleyway, had no place in her memories.

Cornelius retched. The sound of it reminded Joanna of her composure.

'Damage control,' she ordered him. 'Question the survivors, then wipe their memories. Identify the dead.'

Cornelius nodded weakly, turned to go back. The laugh stopped him in his tracks.

It was a hopeless sound at first. A desperate, melancholic splutter.

'Hello?' Joanna called, not wanting to believe that someone this close to the blast could have lived.

A stifled sob. Another laugh.

Joanna moved towards the sound.

'Hello? Who's there?'

She rounded a corner, wand drawn, mind full of hexes and jinxes. A man came into view.

He was sat on the floor, knees up against his chest, arms pulling them closer. His head was bowed, his forehead rested lightly on his right kneecap. A wand hung loosely in his hand.

'Sir?'

He looked up, recognition flaring, disappointment reigning.

Joanna stepped back, aghast.

His face was wild. Blood and dirt was smeared onto his cheeks, creating a marbled effect. Cuts dashed his face, evidence of a hard-won duel.

...A hard-won duel.

Joanna blanched. She raised her wand, gestured behind her for back-up.

'Drop the wand.' Her voice was steady, laced with something dangerous.

His pupils contracted with shock. He looked around him as though seeing everything he had done for the first time. His mouth opened. She did not want to hear his voice.

'Drop it,' she hissed.

A clatter of wood on concrete.

A flicker of movement.

A dull thud of hard skull against hard ground.

'We've got the offender,' Joanna called. 'Get Moody here _now_.'

Cornelius looked her at. Looked at the unconscious man at her feet.

'Don't you know who this is?' he whispered nervously.

'A Muggle-hater? A bitter Death-Eater? A cold and vicious murderer?'

Cornelius only blinked.

* * *

'Did you see what she was wearing?' Daphne Greengrass trilled.

Pansy snickered in appreciation.

'I know she's a Mudblood,' she said derisively, 'but she's been here for over two years. Has she not got how wizards dress yet? She clearly doesn't belong here.'

Daphne nodded in agreement. She laughed suddenly.

'Still, Black's on the loose, isn't he? And he's after Potter. Granger's so much in love with him that she'll probably throw herself in front of the Killing curse to save him. Potter seems to have that sacrificial effect on Mudbloods.'

Pansy shrieked with laughter.

'Daphne, you're so bad. That sounds fantastic. Shame it won't happen.'

Daphne frowned and looked at her friend.

'She doesn't love Potter?'

'Oh, who cares? No, I was talking about _Black_.'

Daphne tensed. She glanced around the busy street.

'Not here, Pansy.'

Pansy rolled her eyes at her friend's cautiousness.

'_Not here._ Let's go to the Shack or something. We can talk there.'

They turned their backs on the high street and set their feet on the neglected track leading out of the village. Pansy was distracted momentarily at the sight of Draco, and pleasantries had to be exchanged for propriety's sake. Daphne's feet danced, itched and her eyes drifted to the Shack more times than was strictly polite and Draco seemed to realise this.

'We're keeping you,' he said courteously. 'Don't feel like you have to stay.'

Pansy opened her mouth, surely about to say that she wanted to say, but her eyes flickered onto the Wanted poster that plastered the wall of a nearby house. Sirius Black grinned at her with blank, staring eyes. Her mouth shut, formed a smile.

'Thank you,' Daphne nodded at Draco and linked her arm through Pansy's. Once last simpering glance and they continued on their way.

'Well?' Daphne pounced the moment they stopped walking.

Pansy smirked. 'Well?'

Daphne slapped her arm lightly. 'Come on, Pansy. Don't leave me in the dark here.'

Pansy pursed her lips, licked them. She tapped her fingers against her chin.

'Pansy,' Daphne whined.

Pansy laughed. 'All right!'

Daphne waved her wand and a bench appeared, sheltered by the trees.

'Sirius Black ran away from home when he was sixteen,' Pansy announced.

Daphne gaped. 'What?'

'He hated his family. Couldn't stand them. Thought they were bigots.'

Daphne sat in silence.

Finally, 'How do you know this?'

Pansy twiddled her thumbs. 'Draco. His mother is a Black. Sirius' cousin.'

'Wow.'

'I know.'

They sat there, Pansy's legs swinging carelessly, Daphne's eyes thoughtful.

'Know what else?'

Daphne inclined her head.

'Sirius Black's best friend was James Potter.'

'_No_,' Daphne gasped. 'So he's trying to kill his best friend's son?' Her views on Purebloods and the demands of society clashed with her derision of blood-traitors.

Pansy raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

Daphne bit her lip. 'He's not after Potter?'

A small shake of her head.

'Then, what's he doing? What's he after?'

Pansy looked at her hard. She seemed to be weighing up the dangers of telling Daphne everything she knew. She shook her head and stood up. Offering a hand to her friend, she said, 'I'm cold. Let's head back, yeah?'

Daphne smiled. 'Yeah.'

* * *

'Have you seen my jumper, Mum?'

Molly pointed to the table behind her. 'Here, where you left it, Ron.'

'Oh, yeah. Thanks.' His voice was muffled as he pulled it over his head.

She nodded absently, directing her wand at the pile of pots by the sink which slowly began to drop into the hot water and wash themselves.

'How do you do that?'

Molly frowned. Voices ran through her head. Bill? No. Charlie? No. Per- Fred, George? No. And it wasn't Ron. Harry, perhaps? She turned round.

Sirius leaned against the doorframe watching the pots in fascination.

Molly laughed in surprise.

'Come on, Sirius. You were top of your year weren't you? You must have learnt some magic in your time at school.'

Sirius joined her laughter.

'No, I meant – how do you just know everything? Everything about your children. You knew who was speaking, you knew where Ron's jumper was. You were panicking when you didn't recognise my voice because you thought I was one of yours. How do you do it?'

Any residual anger Molly had felt towards Sirius after that tense evening of Harry's arrival disappeared.

Sirius continued unaware. 'I doubt my mother even knew I owned a jumper, let alone knew its whereabouts. And she certainly didn't recognise my voice. Half the time she thought I was my father. The other half, she just didn't respond.'

Molly's eyes tightened. For a moment, she couldn't say anything.

Sirius looked towards her, unaccustomed to her silence.

'Ron's always losing his jumpers,' she explained briskly. 'Bill and Charlie don't live here, Fred and George would just summon their jumpers and if Ginny spoke with a voice that deep, I'd probably be more concerned about getting her to St Mungo's than I would be about finding her jumper. It had to be Ron.'

Sirius nodded. She turned back to her cooking and they lapsed into quietness.

'I wish I could be like that. Like you,' Sirius said suddenly.

Molly stopped chopping carrots.

'I wish I could just know what Harry needed. He's never had a family. He deserves one. I want to give him one. But I can't give him what he needs. I don't know what he needs,' he said fiercely.

Molly realised she had been clutching the knife far too tightly. She let it drop to the counter.

'You are what he needs, Sirius. You are the link to his parents. You are filled with stories of them in the good times. He needs to hear those. He needs to hear about his parents, Sirius, not the war heroes.'

Sirius snorted, ran a hand over his eyes.

'So I'm a glorified story-teller. I want to take care of him.'

Molly turned away, her eyes burning. 'You do take care of him,' her voice wobbled.

A chair scraped against the stone flags and Sirius sat down heavily.

'Is that why he nearly died fourteen years ago? Three months ago? Because I take care of him?' He huffed out a blast of angry air. 'What was James thinking?'

Molly sat down next to him. She took his hand.

'He was thinking, 'Here's a man who is childish enough to bond with my son but responsible enough to protect him. Loving enough to kiss him goodnight and devoted enough to give up his life for another man's son.' He was thinking of how much he trusted you, that he would give you the most important part of his life to you.'

Sirius rubbed his eyes again. 'If you say so, Molly,' he smiled.

'Well, I do know everything,' she said lightly.

Sirius laughed quietly. Molly got up and returned to her cooking. Something welled up in the pit of her stomach. She thought it might be pity.

* * *

_27__th__ August, 1996  
London_

_To the estate of the late Sirius Black,_

_**Re: Sirius Black, deceased – Criminal no. 2323**_

_The Ministry of Magic hereby declares that Sirius Black, date of death 18__th__ June, 1996, is innocent of the crimes he was accused of, namely the murder of twelve Muggles and one wizard, Peter Pettigrew, and the manslaughter of James and Lily Potter._

_Furthermore, the Ministry of Magic declares that the aforementioned be pardoned of all accusations of Dark Magic and alliances with Dark wizards, namely the Death Eaters and 'Lord Voldemort'. _

_The Ministry of Magic would like to express their condolences to the friends and family of Sirius Black, and would like to apologise for their errors and the inconveniences these errors caused. _

_The Minister for Magic would like to commend Mr Black for his bravery and for his committed actions during the ongoing battle against 'Lord Voldemort'._

_We, the Ministry, were sad to hear of Mr Black's death, and inspired by his noble deeds._

_Yours faithfully,_

_Sandra Hopkins  
Personal Secretary to the Minister for Magic  
_


End file.
